UC-NRLF 


•I 


B    M    1DD 


GIFT  OF 

Mr.  AH  Alien. 


BODY  AND  RAIMENT 
BY  EUNICE  TIETJENS 


BY  EUNICE  TIETJENS 

PROFILES  FROM  CHINA 
BODY  AND  RAIMENT 


BODY  AND   RAIMENT 
BY  EUNICE  TIETJENS 


NEW  YORK:  ALFRED  •  A  •  KNOPF 
MCMXIX 


COPYRIGHT,  1919,  BY 
ALFRED  A.  KNOPF,  INC. 


PRINTED    IN    THE    UNITED    STATES    OF    AMERICA 


PS3SV? 


MA/M 


To  Janet 

My  Daughter  and  My  Delight 


CONTENTS 

PR°™ 

•  A  PLAINT  OF  COMPLEXITY  I3 

BODY  AND  RAIMENT 

.THE  BACCHANTE  TO  HER  BABE  I9 

PSALM  TO  MY  BELOVED  22 

A  SONG  OF  LONELINESS  23 

To  A  LOST  FRIEND  24 

THE  DRUG  CLERK  25 

SONG  27 

THE  GREAT  MAN  28 

COMPLETION  29 

•  DEFEAT  30 
To  MY  FRIEND,  GROWN  FAMOUS  31 
To  MY  MAD  LOVE  35 
IMPRISONED  36 

%  THE  DREAM  GOES  ON  37 

•FROM  A  HOSPITAL  BED  38 

PARTING  AFTER  A  QUARREL  39 

GLORIA  MUNDI  40 

TRANSCONTINENTAL  41 

DUSK  42 

THE  TEPID  HOUR  43 

LAMENT  OF  A  POETRY  EDITOR  44 

PRAISE  FOR  HIM  45 

SILENCE  46 


PAGE 

NIGHT-WATCH  IN  THE  LIFE  SAVING  STATION  47 

AT  THE  BANQUET  51 

WEARINESS  52 

WOODLAND  LOVE  SONG  53 

ON  THE  HEIGHT  54 

THREE  SPRING  POEMS  55 

To  A  WEST  INDIAN  ALLIGATOR  56 

To  SARA  TEASDALE  58 

To  AMY  LOWELL                                 ,  59 

WINTER  RAIN  60 

NUIT  BLANCHE  61 

A  SONG  OF  SAILING  62 

AFTER  LOVE  63 

THE  STEAM  SHOVEL  64 

MUD  67 
SONG  FOR  A  BLIND  MAN  WHO  COULD  NOT  Go  TO 

WAR  68 

DESERTED  BATTLEFIELD  69 

TRANSLATIONS  AND  RENDERINGS  INTO  ENG 
LISH  VERSE 

SINCE  I  HAVE  SET  MY  LIPS  73 

AUTUMN  SONG  74 

THE  SAIL  75 

SONNET  76 

ON  THE  GRASS  79 

THE  HEART  OF  A  WOMAN  OF  THIRTY  80 

SONGS  8 1 

THE  ORPHAN  82 

THE  CUP  OF  DARKNESS  83 


Proem 


A  Plaint  of  Complexity ' 


I  have  too  many  selves  to  know  the  one. 

In  too  complex  a  schooling  was  I  bred, 

Child  of  too  many  cities,  who  have  gone 

Down  all  bright  cross-roads  of  the  world's  desires, 

And  at  too  many  altars  bowed  my  head 

To  light  too  many  fires. 

One  polished  self  I  have,  she  who  can  sit 

Familiarly  at  tea  with  the  marquise 

And  play  the  exquisite 

In  silken  rustle  lined  with  etiquette, 

Chatting  in  French,  Italian,  what  you  please, 

Of  this  and  that  .   .   . 

Who  sings  now  at  La  Scala,  what's  the  gown 

Fortuni's  planned  for  "La  Louise," 

Or  what  Les  Jeunes  are  at  in  London  town. 

She  can  look  out 

At  dusk  across  Lung'  Arno,  sigh  a  bit, 

And  speak  with  shadowy  feeling  of  the  rout 

This  brute  modernity  has  made 

Of  Beauty  and  of  Art; 

And  sigh  with  just  the  proper  shade 

Of  scorn  for  Guido  Reni,  just  the  "Ah !" 

For  the  squeezed  martyrs  of  El  Greco. 

And  I've  a  modern,  rather  mannish  self 

Lives  gladly  in  Chicago. 

She  believes 

That  woman  should  come  down  from  off  her  shelf 


^  the.  male 
And  labor  for  her  living.1 'l 
She  likes  men, 

And  equal  comradeship,  and  giving 
As  much  as  she  receives. 
She  likes  discussions  lasting  half  the  night, 
Lit  up  with  wit  and  cigarettes, 
Of  art,  religion,  politics  and  sex, 
Science  and  prostitution.     She  thinks  art 
Deals  first  of  all  with  life,  and  likes  to  write 
Poems  of  drug  clerks  and  machinery. 
She's  very  independent — and  at  heart 
A  little  lonely  .  .  . 

I've  a  horrid  self, 

A  sort  of  snob,  who's  travelled  here  and  there 

And  drags  in  references  by  the  hair 

To  steamship  lines,  and  hotels  in  Hong  Kong, 

The  temple  roofs  of  Nikko,  and  the  song 

Of  the  Pope's  Nightingale. 

She  always  speaks, 

In  passing,  of  the  great  men  whom  she  knows, 

And  leaves  a  trail 

Of  half  impressed  but  irritated  foes. 

My  other  selves  dislike  her,  but  we  can't 

Get  rid  of  her  at  certain  times  and  places, 

And  there  are  faces 

That  wake  her  in  me. 

I've  a  self  compound  of  strange,  wild  things, 
Of  solitude,  and  mud,  and  savagery; 


Loves  mountain  tops  and  deserts 

And  the  wings 

Of  great  hawks  beating  black  against  the  sky. 

Would  love  a  man  to  beat  her.   .   .  . 

I've  a  self  might  almost  be  a  nun, 

So  she  loves  peace,  prim  gardens  in  the  sun 

Where  shadows  shift  at  evening, 

Hands  at  rest, 

And  the  clear  lack  of  questions  in  her  breast. 

And  deeper  yet  there  is  my  mother  self, 

Something  not  so  much  I  as  womankind, 

That  surges  upwar.d  from  a  blind 

Immeasurable  past. 

A  little  laughing  daughter,  a  cool  child 

Sudden  and  lovely  as  a  wild 

Young  wood-thing,  she  has  somehow  caught 

And  holds  half  unbelieving.     She  has  wrought 

Love-bands  to  hold  her  fast 

Of  courage,  tenderness  and  truth, 

And  memories  of  her  own  white  youth, 

The  best  I  am,  or  can  be. 

This  self  stands 

When  others  come  and  go,  and  in  her  hands 

Are  balm  for  wounds  and  quiet  for  distractions, 

And  she's  the  deepest  source  of  all  my  actions. 

But  I've  another  self  she  does  not  touch, 
A  self  I  live  in  much,  and  overmuch 

15 


These  latter  years. 

A  self  who  stands  apart  from  outward  things, 

From  pleasure  and  from  tears, 

And  all  the  little  things  I  say  and  do. 

She  feels  that  action  traps  her,  and  she  swings 

Sheer  out  of  life  sometimes,  and  loses  sense 

Of  boundaries  and  of  impotence. 

I  think  she  touches  something,  and  her  eyes 

Grope,  almost  seeing,  through  the  veil 

Towards  the  eternal  beauty  in  the  skies 

And  the  last  loveliness  that  cannot  fail. 

But  what  she  sees  in  her  far  spirit  world, 

Or  what  the  center  is 

Of  all  this  whirl  of  crowding  Fs, 

I  cannot  tell  you — only  this : 

That  I've  too  many  selves  to  know  the  one ; 

In  too  complex  a  schooling  was  I  bred, 

Child  of  too  many  cities,  who  have  gone 

Down  all  bright  cross-roads  of  the  world's  desires, 

And  at  too  many  altars  bowed  my  head 

To  light  too  many  fires. 


16 


Body 
and  Raiment 


The  Bacchante  to  her  Babe 

Scherzo 

Come,  Sprite,  and  dance  I     The  sun  is  up, 

The  wind  runs  laughing  down  the  sky 

That  brims  with  morning  like  a  cup; 

Sprite,  we  must  race  him, 

We  must  chase  him 

You  and  I ! 

And  skim  across  the  fuzzy  heather, 

You  and  joy  and  I  together 

Whirling  by ! 

You  merry  little  roll  of  fat ! 

Made  warm  to  kiss,  and  smooth  to  pat, 

And  round  to  toy  with,  like  a  cub, 

To  put  one's  nozzle  in  and  rub 

And  breathe  you  in  like  breath  of  kine, 

Like  juice  of  vine, 

That  sets  my  morning  heart  a-tingling, 

Dancing,  jingling, 

All  the  glad  abandon  mingling 

Of  wind  and  wine! 

Sprite,  you  are  love,  and  you  are  joy, 

A  happiness,  a  dream,  a  toy, 

A  god  to  laugh  with, 

Love  to  chaff  with, 

The  sun  come  down  in  tangled  gold, 

The  moon  to  kiss  and  spring  to  hold. 


There  was  a  time  once,  long  ago, 

Long,  oh,  long  since  ...  I  scarcely  know; 

Almost  I  had  forgot  .   .   . 

There  was  a  time  when  you  were  not, 

You  merry  sprite,  save  as  a  strain, 

The  strange  dull  pain 

Of  green  buds  swelling 

In  warm  straight  dwelling 

That  must  burst  to  the  April  rain. 

A  little  heavy  I  was  then 

And  dull,  and  glad  to  rest.     And  when 

The  travail  came 

In  searing  flame  .   .  . 

But,  sprite,  that  was  so  long  ago ! 

A  century !     I  scarcely  know. 

Almost  I  had  forgot 

When  you  were  not. 

So,  little  sprite,  come  dance  with  me ! 
The  sun  is  up,  the  wind  is  free ! 
Come  now  and  trip  it, 
Romp  and  skip  it; 
Earth  is  young  and  so  are  we. 
Sprite,  you  and  I  will  dance  together 
On  the  heather, 

Glad  with  all  the  procreant  earth, 
With  all  the  fruitage  of  the  trees, 
And  golden  pollen  on  the  breeze; 
With  plants  that  bring  the  grain  to  birth, 
With  beast  and  bird, 
Feathered  and  furred, 
20 


With  youth  and  hope  and  life  and  love 
And  joy  thereof, 

While  we  are  part  of  all,  we  two, 
For  my  glad  burgeoning  in  you ! 

So,  merry  little  roll  of  fat, 

Made  warm  to  kiss  and  smooth  to  pat 

And  round  to  toy  with,  like  a  cub, 

To  put  one's  nozzle  in  and  rub; 

My  god  to  laugh  with, 

Love  to  chaff  with, 

Come  and  dance  beneath  the  sky 

You  and  I! 

Look  out  with  those  round  wondering  eyes, 

And  squirm,  and  gurgle — and  grow  wise ! 


21 


Psalm  to  My  Beloved 

Lo,  I  have  opened  unto  you  the  wide  gates  of  my  being,! 

And  like  a  tide  you  have  flowed  into  me. 

The  innermost  recesses  of  my  spirit  are  full  of  you,  and! 

all  the  channels  of  my  soul  are  grown  sweet  with! 

your  presence. 

For  you  have  brought  me  peace; 
The  peace  of  great  tranquil  waters,  and  the  quiet  of  the] 

summer  sea. 
Your  hands  are  filled  with  peace  as  the  noon-tide  is! 

filled  with  light;  about  your  head  is  bound  the 

eternal  quiet  of  the  stars,  and  in  your  heart  dwells 

the  calm  miracle  of  twilight. 
I  am  utterly  content. 
In  all  my  spirit  is  no  ripple  of  unrest. 
For  I  have  opened  unto  you  the  wide  gates  of  my  being 
And  like  a  tide  you  have  flowed  into  me. 


22 


A  Song  of  Loneliness 

The  silver  night  is  faint  with  beauty; 
The  iris  shimmer  in  the  moon; 
Soft  as  the  words  of  love  remembered 
The  night  winds  croon. 

No  tremor  shakes  the  moon  in  heaven; 
The  gleaming  iris  feel  no  smart, 
And  nothing  aches  in  all  this  beauty 
Except  my  heart. 


To  a  Lost  Friend 

Across  the  tide  of  years  you  come  to  me, 

You  whom  I  knew  so  long  ago. 

A  poignant  letter  kept  half  carelessly, 

A  faded  likeness,  dull  and  gray  to  see  .  .  . 

And  now  I  know. 

Strange  that  I  knew  not  then — that  when  you  stood 
In  warm,  sweet  flesh  beneath  my  hand, 
Your  soul  tumultuous  as  a  spring-time  flood 
And  life's  new  wonder  pulsing  in  your  blood, 
I  could  not  understand. 

I  could  not  see  your  soul  like  thin  red  fire 

Flash  downward  to  my  gaze, 

Nor  guess  the  strange,  half  understood  desire, 

The  tumult  and  the  question  and  the  ire 

Of  those  far  days. 

It  is  too  late  now.     You  have  dropped  away 

In  formless  silence  from  my  ken 

And  youth's  high  hopes  turn  backward  to  decay. 

Yet  oh,  my  heart  were  very  fain  today 

To  love  you  then ! 


The  Drug  Clerk 

The  drug  clerk  stands  behind  the  counter, 
Young  and  dapper,  debonair  .  .  . 

Before  him  burn  the  great  unwinking  lights, 

The  hectic  stars  of  city  nights, 

Red  as  hell's  pit,  green  as  a  mermaid's  hair. 

A  queer  half  acrid  smell  is  in  the  air. 

Behind  him  on  the  shelves  in  ordered  rows 

With  strange  abbreviated  names 

Dwell  half  the  facts  of  life.     That  young  man  knows 

Bottled  and  boxed  and  powdered  here 

Dumb  tragedies,  deceptions,  secret  shames, 

And  comedy,  and  fear. 

Sleep  slumbers  here,  like  a  great  quiet  sea 

Shrunk  to  this  bottle's  compass,  sleep  that  brings 

Sweet  respite  from  the  teeth  of  pain 

To  those  poor  tossing  things 

That  the  white  nurses  watch  so  thoughtfully. 

And  here  again 

Dwell  the  shy  souls  of  Maytime  flowers 

That  shall  make  sweeter  still  those  poignant  hours 

When  wide-eyed  youth  looks  on  the  face  of  love. 

And,  for  those  others  who  have  found  too  late 

The  bitter  fruit  thereof,  ^ 

Here  are  cosmetics,  powders,  paints — the  arts 

That  hunted  women  use  to  hunt  again 

With  scented  flesh  for  bait. 

And  here  is  comfort  for  the  hearts 

25 


Of  sucking  babes  in  their  first  teething  pain. 

Here  dwells  the  substance  of  huge  fervid  dreams, 

Fantastic,  many-colored,  shot  with  gleams 

Of  ecstasy  and  madness,  that  shall  come 

To  some  pale  twitching  sleeper  in  a  bunk. 

And  here  is  courage,  cheaply  bought 

To  cure  a  sick  blue  funk, 

And  dearly  paid  for  in  the  final  sum. 

Here  in  this  powdered  fly  is  caught 

Desire  more  ravishing  than  Tarquin's,  rape 

And  bloody-handed  murder.     And  at  last 

When  the  one  weary  hope  is  past 

Here  is  the  sole  escape, 

The  little  postern  in  the  house  of  breath 

Where  pallid  fugitives  keep  tryst  with  death. 


All  this  the  drug  clerk  knows,  and  there  he  stands, 

Young  and  dapper,  debonair  .  .  . 

He  rests  a  pair  of  slender  hands, 

Much  manicured,  upon  the  counter  there 

And  speaks:     "No,  we  don't  carry  no  pomade. 

We  only  cater  to  the  high-class  trade." 


26 


Song 

In  the  little  hills  of  Tryon 
My  love  is  hid  away, 
Fed  on  rain  and  beauty 
All  the  April  day. 

Oh,  love  is  big  as  doomsday 
And  stronger  than  the  sea, 
Yet  the  little  hills  of  Tryon 
Can  hide  my  love  from  me. 


27 


The  Great  Man 

I  cannot  always  feel  his  greatness. 
Sometimes  he  walks  beside  me,  step  by  step, 
And  paces  slowly  in  the  ways — 
The  simple,  wingless  ways 

That  my  thought  treads.     He  gossips  with  me  then 
And  finds  it  good; 

Not  as  an  eagle  might,  his  great  wings  folded,  be  con 
tent 

To  walk  a  little,  knowing  it  his  choice, 
But  as  a  simple  man, 
My  friend. 
And  I  forget. 

Then  suddenly  a  call  floats  down 

From  the  clear  airy  spaces, 

The  great,  keen  lonely  heights  of  being. 

Then  he  who  was  my  comrade  hears  the  call 

And  rises  from  my  side,  and  soars, 

Deep-chanting  to  the  heights. 

Then  I  remember. 

And  my  upward  gaze  goes  with  him,  and  I  see 

Far  off  against  the  sky 

The  glint  of  golden  sunlight  on  his  wings. 


28 


Completion 

My  heart  has  fed  today. 

My  heart,  like  hind  at  play, 

Has  grazed  in  fields  of  love,  and  washed  in  streams 

Of  quick,  imperishable  dreams. 

In  moth-white  beauty  shimmering, 
Lovely  as  birches  in  the  moon  glimmering, 
From  coigns  of  sleep  my  eyes 
Saw  dawn  and  love  arise. 

And  like  a  bird  at  rest, 
Steady  in  a  swinging  nest, 
My  heart  at  peace  lay  gloriously 
While  wings  of  ecstasy 
Beat  round  me  and  above. 

I  am  fulfilled  of  love. 


29 


Defeat 

I  have  seen  him,  and  his  hand 
Has  that  slow  gesture  still. 

My  tutored  heart 

That  had  gone  quietly  these  many  months, 
And  happily,  securely,  beat  its  way 
Glad  to  be  free  of  the  old  instancy — 
My  Jtsfrrt  betrayed  me. 
Cowardly  it  stopped; 

And  then  it  leaped;  and  the  old  Panic  hoofbeats  thun 
dered  in  my  ears. 

Oh,  is  there  then  no  peace  for  me 

When  old  love  will  not  die? 

And  shall  I  conquer  all  things, 

Thrusting  up,  through  the  intolerable  pain  of  growth, 

Until  my  soul 

Leaps  winged  to  the  sunset's  rim, 

Only  at  last  to  break  my  self  on  love 

And  fall  a-trembling  like  an  aching  girl 

Because  he  has  a  beautiful  slow  hand? 


To  My  Friend,  Grown  Famous 
(E.  L.  M.) 


The  mail  has  come  from  home,  — 

From  home  that  still  remembers,  —  to  Japan. 

My  tiny  maid,  as  faultless  as  a  fan, 

Bows  in  the  doorway.     "  Honorable  letters," 

She  says,  "  have  kindly  come." 

And  smiles,  knowing  the  fetters 

That  bind  me  still. 

And  all  my  mail  today  is  full  of  you. 

"His  name,"  says  one,  "is  sounding  still  and  sounding. 

And  someone  else,  "It  is  astounding; 

I  never  knew  the  public  chatter  worse. 

Nineteen  editions  for  a  book  of  verse  !" 

And  all  the  printed  pages  glitter,  too, 

With  you; 

With  your  stark  vision  and  cold  fire, 

Your  singing  truth,  your  vehement  desire 

To  cut  through  lies  to  life. 

These  move  behind  the  printed  echoes  here, 

The  paper  strife, 

The  scurry  of  small  pens  about  your  name, 

Measuring,   praising,  blaming  by  the  same 

Tight  rule  of  thumb  that  makes  their  own 

Inadequacy  known. 

And  as  I  read  a  phrase  leaps  clear 

From  your  own  letter:     "I  am  tired,"  you  say, 

"Of  men  who  talk  and  talk  and  dare  not  live, 


But  take  their  orgasms  in  speech !" 

Yes,  that  would  be  your  way 

To  take  the  critics.     It  is  you  who  give, 

Not  they; 

And  safe  beyond  their  reach 

Huge,  careless,   Rabelaisian,  you  pass  by, 

Watching  their  squirming  with  amused  eye. 

Here  as  I  sit, 

My  paper  house-side  slid  away 

And  all  my  chamber  open  to  the  rain, 

I  feel  a  haunting,  exquisite 

Grey  shadow  of  a  pain. 

Beauty  has  part  in  it,   and  loneliness, 

And  the  far  call  of  home — and  thoughts  of  you 

In  the  rain  of  spring. 

Here  in  this  land  of  frozen  loveliness, 

Of  artistry  complete,  where  each  small  thing 

Minutely,  preciously,  is  perfect, 

I  have  grown  hungry  for  the  sight  of  you 

Who  are  not  perfect, 

Who  are  big  and  free 

And  largely  vulgar  like  the  peasantry, 

And  full  of  sorrows  for  mankind. 

I  cannot  find 

Your  spirit  in  this  land.     The  little  tree 

Tortured  and  dwarfed — oh!  beautiful  I  know 

In  the  grey  slanting  rain, 

But  tortured  even  so — 

The  little  pine  tree  in  my  garden  close 

Is  symbol  of  the  soul  that  grows 

32 


Within  this  patient  cult  of  loveliness. 

You  would  not  understand, 

Would  care  far  less 

For  the  pale,  silvered  shadows  of  this  land 

That  make  it  dear  to  me. 

Yet  when  I  see 

Your  clear  handwriting  march  across  the  page, 

And  your  brave  spirit  of  a  tonic  age 

Blow  sharp  across  the  spring 

I  smother  here  a  little; 

This  conscious  beauty  is  so  light,  so  brittle, 

So  frail  a  thing ! 

But  you  are  free!     "Go  out,"  your  letter  says, 

"Go  drink  life  to  the  lees. 

See  the  round  world !     Watch  where  Lord  Buddha  sits 

Beneath  the  tree;  and  see  where  Jesus  walked 

And  talked. 

See  where  Aspasia  and  Pericles 

Have  visited  together,  and  where  Socrates 

Leaned  on  the  wall.   .  .  . 

Go  out,  my  friend,  and  see — 

And  then  come  back  and  tell  it  all  to  me !" 

That,  too,  is  like  you;  "Tell  it  all  to  me." 
I  feel  your  spirit  searching  hungrily 
Each  human  being  for  the  stuff  of  life, 
The  sharp  blue  flame  below  the  smoke, 
The  authentic  cry 

That  all  our  mouthing  cannot  choke. 
Your  hunger  is  for  life,  for  life! 

33 


And  you  have  understanding,  and  the  power 
To  pierce  the  husk  of  words;  to  take  an  hour 
Hot  from  the  crisis  of  a  soul 
And  live  it  in  another,  and  so  grow 
Greater  by  each  of  us  who  only  know 
A  part — and  you  the  whole. 

0  friend,  my  friend,  it's  good  to  feel  you  there, 
A  solvent  for  all  small  hypocrisies, 

A  white  and  steady  flare 

That  beacons  over  such  confusing  seas 

To  bring  me  truth. 

It's  good  to  know  that  youth 

And  eyes  and  lips  are  only  half  the  tie; 

That,  though  all  listening  peoples  claim  you  now, 

Your  spirit  still 

Holds  some  small  emptiness  that  I, 

And  only  I,  can  fill. 

So  take  my  homage,  friend,  with  all  the  rest. 
It  will  not  hurt  you — you  are  much  too  wise — 
And  ride  the  world,  and  battle  at  the  crest, 
As  at  the  ebb,  with  lies. 
Yet  if  you  weary  sometimes  of  the  praise 
And  greatness  palls  a  little  in  the  dusk, 

1  shall  be  waiting  as  in  other  days. 

Then  you  can  strip  your  world-ways  like  a  husk, 
And  friendship  will  make  wide  her  wicket  gate 
On  twilit  gardens,  sweet  and  intimate, 
And  we  will  talk  of  simple  homely  things, 
Of  flowers,  of  laughter,  of  the  flash  of  wings.  .  . 

34 


To  My  Mad  Love 

O  madder  than  the  great  mad  wind 
That  skims  the  singing  sky, 
When  all  the  earth  is  taut  with  spring, 
And  every  joyous  frolic  thing 
Whirls  laughing  by! 

O  madder  than  the  great  round  sun, 
And  than  the  glad  green  sea 
That  leaps  to  feel  herself  caressed, 
Panting  beneath  the  sun-god's  breast 
In  ecstasy. 

O  mad  as  only  gods  are  mad 
Who  know  the  sting  of  pain, 
And  yet  ride  over  it  like  chaff, 
Who  trample  it  with  joy,  and  laugh, 
And  laugh  again. 

O  mad  with  a  creator's  joy 

Of  life  and  love  set  free, 

Oh,  you  have  lit  the  earth  with  fire 

And  waked  in  all  her  young  desire 

The  spring  in  me ! 


Imprisoned 

I  have  walked  always  in  a  veil. 
A  clinging  shroud  encircles  me, 
Steel-strong,  yet  yielding,  and  too  frail 
For  any  eye  to  see. 

No  blow  can  rend  it,  and  no  knife 
Can  slash  the  subtle  formless  thing. 
It  shuts  me  in  with  my  own  life 
Past  hope  or  questioning. 

If  I  reach  out  my  hand  to  touch 
Some  meeting  hand  of  god  or  man, 
The  veil  gives  backward  just  so  much 
As  my  arm's  length  can  span. 

I  cannot  hope  to  loose  its  hold 
Till  I  am  free  of  transient  suns. 
I  grow  more  separate  in  its  folds 
With  every  year  that  runs. 

And  yet  I  cannot  be  content. 
I  cry  out  like  a  lonely  child; 
I  struggle,  but  my  strength  is  spent; 
I  am  not  reconciled. 

Oh,  brother,  whom  I  cannot  reach, 
Not  willingly  I  pass  you  by! 
My  heart  is  clumsy,  and  my  speech, 
But,  brother,  hear  my  cry ! 

36 


The  Dream  Goes  On 

The  work  goes  on,  the  dream  goes  on  1 
We  are  the  tide-waves,  nothing  more; 
Our  separate  lives  beat  and  are  gone 
Upon  the  shore. 

The  dream  goes  on !      Past  peace,  past  war, 
Past  life  or  death,  past  fear  or  fate, 
Mounts  beauty  like  a  virgin  star 
Inviolate. 


From  a  Hospital  Bed 

This  is  a  house  of  many-fingered  pain, 

Swift  fingers,  pitiless,  that  probe  and  press; 

A  sullen  house,  where  torture  is  and  stress, 

And  where  drugged  nightmare  dreams  grow  real  again 

Here  in  the  darkness  shudder  cries,  that  strain 

Like  living  things,  throbbing  and  powerless, 

Against  dead  walls  grown  pale  with  weariness, 

And  dull,  blank  windows  where  the  sick  hours  wane 

Yet  here — begot  by  very  violence 

Of  pain,  that  pain  might  sting  itself,  and  heal — 

The  living  spirit  of  compassion  dwells 

And  ministers  in  fervent  diligence 

With  keen  strong  hands;  till  I  who  lie  here  feel 

That  heaven  has  stooped  and  laid  its  lips  to  hell's. 


Parting  After  a  Quarrel 

You  looked  at  me  with  eyes  grown  bright  with  pain 
Like  some  trapped  thing's.     And  then  you  moved  your 

head 

Slowly  from  side  to  side,  as  though  the  strain 
Ached  in  your  throat  with  anger  and  with  dread. 

And  then  you  turned  and  left  me,  and  I  stood 
With  a  queer  sense  of  deadness  over  me, 
And  only  wondered  dully  that  you  could 
Fasten  your  trench-coat  up  so  carefully 

Till  you  were  gone.     Then  all  the  air  was  thick 
With  my  last  words  that  seemed  to  leap  and  quiver. 
And  in  my  heart  I  heard  the  little  click 
Of  a  door  that  closes — quietly,  forever. 


39 


Gloria  Mundi 

In  what  dim,  half-imagined  place 
Does  the  Titanic  lie  today, 
Too  deep  for  tide,  too  deep  for  spray, 
In  night  and  saltiness  and  space? 

Oh,  quiet  must  the  sea-floor  be ! 
And  very  still  must  be  the  gloom 
Where  in  each  well-appointed  room 
The  splendor  rots  unto  the  sea. 

Through  crannies  in  the  shattered  decks 
The  sea-weed  thrusts  pale  finger-tips, 
And  in  the  bottom's  jagged  rips 
With  ghostly  hands  k  waves  and  becks. 

The  mirrors  in  the  great  saloons 
Sleep  darkly  in  their  gilt  and  brass, 
Save  when  the  silent  fishes  pass 
With  eyes  like  phosphorescent  moons. 

On  painted  walls  are  slimy  things; 
And  strange  sea  creatures,  lithe  and  cool, 
Spawn  in  the  marble  swimming  pool 
And  shall — a  thousand  thousand  springs. 

For  as  it  is,  so  it  shall  be, 
Untouched  of  time  till  doom  appears, 
Too  deep  for  days,  too  deep  for  years, 
In  the  salt  quiet  of  the  sea. 
40 


Transcontinental 

The  train  spins  forward  endlessly. 

Outside 

The  sunlit  trees  and  the  patient  procreant  fields 

Flash  past  me  and  are  gone. 

Drab  little  houses  pass  me  silently, 

Colored  without  from  the  drab  lives  within. 

I  see  them,  and  I  see  them  not. 

My  heart 

Half  dwells  behind  me,  lingering  with  lips  new-lost, 

And  half  leaps  forward  to  the  journey's  end. 

Only  my  body  sits  here  listlessly, 

Here  where  the  sunlit  trees 

Flash  past  me  and  are  gone. 


Dusk 

The  pathway  of  the  setting  sun 
Flakes  up  the  sea  to  westward; 
My  heart  cries  out,  now  day  is  done, 
To  you — to  you — and  restward. 

The  white  gulls  flit  towards  shore  and  hill 
That  flew  this  morning  foamward, 
But  my  heart  circles,  crying  still, 
And  may  not  turn  it  homeward. 


The  Tepid  Hour 

In  such  a  tepid  night  as  this 
Strange  formless  sorrowings  lie  hid, 
Like  melancholy  in  a  kiss, 
Like  what  we  dreamed  in  what  we  did, 
In  such  a  tepid  night  as  this. 

From  out  some  shadowy  depths  of  me 
Vague  longings  struggle,  dreamer-wise; 
They  stir  and  moan  uneasily, 
Then  sleep  again,  too  weak  to  rise 
From  out  those  shadowy  depths  of  me. 

Life  holds  me  by  so  frail  a  thread 
That  scarce  I  feel  the  drag  of  it. 
Alive  I  seem,  and  yet  half  dead. 
But  quick  or  dead  I  care  no  whit, 
Life  holds  me  by  so  frail  a  thread. 

I  would  not  snap  the  thread,  and  yet 
Light  as  it  is  I  grudge  its  hold. 
'Twere  broken  with  no  more  regret 
Than  lingers  round  a  love  grown  old; 
I  would  not  snap  the  thread,  and  yet  .  . 


Lament  of  a  Poetry  Editor 

Heigh-ho,  how  many  songs  they  write, 
The  great  ones  and  the  small ! 
Although  I  sit  from  noon  till  night 
I  cannot  read  them  all. 

They  write  of  most  important  things, 
Of  wisdom  old  and  new. 
But  oh,  the  little  words  with  wings — 
They  are  so  few — so  few ! 


44 


Praise  for  Him 

And  if  I  find  you  beautiful,  what  then? 

Shall  I  not  take  my  pleasure  in  the  line 

Of  your  clean  chiseled  nostril,  and  the  fine 

Crisp  curve  your  hair  makes  on  your  forehead?     Men 

Are  plenty  who  are  dull  and  dutiful. 

I  owe  you  thanks  that  you  are  beautiful. 

And  if  your  spirit's  vividness  is  such 
That  with  the  swiftness  of  a  flight  of  birds 
Rises  the  covey  of  your  colored  words, 
Where  is  the  song  shall  praise  you  overmuch? 
I  hold  no  brief  for  pious  lividness; 
I  thank  you  for  your  spirit's  vividness. 

And  if  your  soul — "Is  there  a  soul?"     "Perhaps; 
At  least  admit  it  as  a  way  men  speak." — 
Your  soul  then,  lonely  as  a  mountain  peak 
And  naked  as  a  fawn,  if  it  can  lapse 
Sheer  outward  from  the  rim  of  things  I  see, 
Well !     I'm  still  thankful  for  your  liberty. 


45 


Silence 

Between  us  two  a  silence  lies 
Ringed  all  about  with  sound. 
Beneath  the  crash  of  work-day  cries, 
Beneath  night's  whispering  of  sighs 
It  wraps  me  round. 

It  is  more  silent  than  the  deep 

Below  the  sounding  sea; 

More  silent  than  the  stars  that  keep 

Lone  watches  where  the  world-winds  sweep 

Across  eternity. 

It  folds  me  from  the  blatant  day 
And  from  the  noisy  street. 
Remote  and  still  I  go  my  way, 
Feeling,  behind  the  fret  and  fray, 
The  heart  of  silence  beat. 


Night-watch  in  the  Life  Saving  Station 

"Ten  minutes  late  tonight!" 

"I'm  sorry,  Cap. 

Examinations  are  next  week  you  know, 
And  that  biology's  a  reg'lar  trap. 
Those  tricky  slides  .   .  .   and  then  I  love  it  so. 
I  crammed  too  late.      I'm  sorry." 

"Let  it  go. 

But  that's  the  trouble  with  this  student  crew, — 
Late  every  one  of  you ! 
There's  nothing  to  report.     Good  night." 
"Good  night — and  thank  you,  Cap." 

Already  it  is  dusk,  and  in  my  sight 

Skies  and  the  sea  are  spread. 

The  west  still  tingles  with  the  after-glow 

Behind  me,  but  before 

The  fragile  air  deepens  to  indigo 

And  the  sea  sighs,  and  nestles  in  its  bed. 

The  long  curved  line  of  shore 

Is  strung  with  points  of  light,   and  more  and  more 

The  grinding  sounds  of  labor  cease; 

The  cup  of  day  is  full. 

How  beautiful  is  peace — 

How  beautiful!   .  .  . 

Far  out  across  the  dark  and  breathing  sea 
A  single  ship,  a  human  point  of  light, 
Trails  through  the  growing  night 
Lone  as  a  soul, 

47 


Its  tiny  flame,  set  in  immensity, 

Seems  as  remote,  as  separate  from  me 

As  pole  from  Arctic  pole. 

Yet  suddenly,  if  the  blown  sea  should  rise, 

Heedless  of  things  afloat 

Hurtling  itself  against  the  skies, 

And  from  my  throat 

The  cry  should  come,  "A  ship  is  in  distress !" 

Then  soul  would  leap  to  soul  across  the  waste, 

And  I  should  hear,  below  me  in  the  mess, 

Shouts,  and  the  rush  of  feet,  and  the  crisp  sound 

Of  oil-skins  donned  in  haste. 

And  on  the  beach 

Man  and  the  sea  would  grip.     The  vicious  reach, 

The  hammer  and  rebound 

Of  the  piled  surf  would  beat  him  back  to  land. 

But  he  would  struggle  up,  and  stand 

To  hurl  himself  again  into  the  sea; 

And  there  would  be 

Eyes  stung  with  salt,  blind  cries  across  the  night, 

And  straining  muscles,  and  hard  laboring  breath, 

And  fear,  and  helplessness,  and  death — 

Yes,  even  death  perhaps, 

Because  of  that  lone  light. 

So  are  we  knit.     So  man's  new  faith  leaps  free 

In  the  old  fight. 

But  the  storm -sleeps — and  slowly  from  my  sight 
The  spark  drifts  out;  and  on  the  sighing  sea 
Night  broods,  and  beauty;  little  winds  that  cease; 
48 


All  ageless  things,  all  mystery, 

And  blue  deep-driven  peace. 

So  looked  the  bright  bent  moon  when  from  the  slime 

The  ape  my  father  grew  aware  of  time 

And  stood  a  man — to  hurl  across  the  dark 

The  yearning  and  the  challenge  and  the  spark, 

Dumbly,  as  I  tonight  am  dumb. 

And  so  the  sea  has  sighed 

With  ebb  and  tide 

A  million  million  years  to  come.  .  .  . 


Here  on  my  height  between  the  earth  and  sky 

Watching,  remote,  the  wheel  of  life  go  by, 

Almost  I  can  appraise 

With  final  judgment  these  small  human  lives, 

This  homely,  patient  litany  of  days, 

That  wakes  and  strives 

Beside  the  everlasting  sea. 

Here  in  the  night  the  clinging  veil  wears  thin, 

The  veil  of  self  that  hems  me  in; 

Almost  I  feel  a  godhead  grow  in  me, 

The  clanging  spirit  of  old  prophecy, 

To  hurl  my  soul, 

My  ringing  human  soul, 

Forward  along  man's  pathway  to  the  goal; 

To  gather  up  in  one  fierce  ecstasy 

All  threads,  all  knowledge  and  all  mystery, 

To  know — and  know — 

So  burst  this  little  I 

And,  knowing,  die 

49 


And  be  at  peace. 

Almost,  almost — I  see  .  .  . 

"What,  you  already,  Mate?     My  watch  is  past? 
I  never  knew  the  hours  to  go  so  fast. 
I  got  to  thinking — it's  my  last  resort ! 
Good  night,  Mate. 

No,  there's  nothing  to  report." 


At  the  Banquet 

Above  the  wine  and  cigarettes, 
Below  the  jest  that  flies, 
I  catch  with  half  amused  insistence, 
Like  throb  of  music  in  the  distance, 
Your  eyes! 

They  knit  the  wine  and  jest  together 
In  deeper  harmonies; 
With  my  own  thoughts  they  interlace 
Like  some  strange  contrapuntal  bass 
Your  eyes. 

The  words  we  speak  say  all — and  nothing. 

In  them  no  mystery  lies. 

Only,  between  my  soul  and  sense 

Steal,  half  amused  and  half  intense, 

Your  eyes.  .  .  . 


Weariness 

I  am  so  tired! 


A  haze  of  heaviness  is  over  me. 

Voices  come  dully  through  the  void; 

And  though  I  hardly  understand 

And  my  mind  fumbles  like  a  sightless  thing 

My  tongue  makes  answer  thickly. 

All  my  world,  the  prick  of  all  my  being, 

Dulls  to  this:  only  to  rest,  to  rest, 

And  to  be  sunk  miles  deep 

In  inert  flesh.  .  .  . 


/  am  so  tired. 


Woodland  Love  Song 

Hark  to  the  woodland,  the  low  thrilling  hum  of  it, 
Hark  to  the  message  that  sings  in  the  pine! 
Love  lies  before  us,  the  whole  golden  sum  of  it; 
Come  what  may  come  of  it, 
Here  you  are  mine! 

Love  of  life,  life  of  love,  here  we  are  part  of  it, 
Here  where  the  wood-odor  moves  me  like  wine. 
Pure  thrill  of  living,  the  joy  and  the  smart  of  it, 
Deep  in  the  heart  of  it, 
Here  you  are  mine ! 

Yield  me  your  lips,  love,  that  make  me  the  thrall  of 

you, 

Yield  me  them  glowing,  half  shy,  half  divine. 
Love,  how  my  being  cries  out  at  the  call  of  you ! 
Oh,  give  me  all  of  you, 
Mine,  all,  all  mine! 


53 


On  the  Height 

The  foot-hills  called  us,  green  and  sweet. 
We  dallied,  but  we  might  not  stay; 
And  all  day  long  we  set  our  feet 
In  the  wind's  way. 

We  climbed  with  him  the  wandering  trail 
Up  to  the  last  keen,  lonely  height 
Where  snow-peaks  clustered,  sharp  and  frail, 
Swimming  in  light. 

Sheer  on  the  edge  of  heaven  we  dwelt, 
And  laughed  above  the  blue  abyss, 
While  on  my  happy  lips  I  felt 
Your  windy  kiss. 

You  were  the  spirit  of  the  height, 

The  breath  of  sun  and  air.  .  .  . 

A  bird  dipped  wing,  and,  swift  and  white, 

Peace  brooded  there. 


54 


Three  Spring  Poems 

In  Imitation  of  the  Japanese 


In  the  sweet  spring  rain 
The  small  fingers  of  the  grass 
Tender  little  yearning  things, 
Reach  up  towards  the  sky. 
Do  you  think  to  find  the  sun? 

II 

It  is  cold  tonight. 
The  last  fold  of  winter's  robe 
Trails  across  the  land; 
Yet  I  see  a  soft  green  bud 
Broidered  on  the  hern  of  it. 

in 

Little  cherry  bud, 

Hidden  in  your  close  brown  leaves, 

Are  you  truly  there? 

Or  since  spring  has  come  to  me 

Do  I  only  dream  of  you? 


To  a  West  Indian  Alligator 

(Estimated  age,  1957  years1) 

Greetings,  my  brother,  strange  and  uncouth  beast, 

Flat-bellied,  wrinkled,  broad  of  nose ! 

You  are  not  beautiful — and  yet  at  least 

Contentment  spreads  your  scaly  toes. 

The  keeper  thwacks  you  and  you  grunt  at  me, 
Two  hundred  pounds  of  sleepy  spleen. 
He  tells  me  that  your  cranial  cavity 
Will  just  contain  a  lima  bean. 

How  seems  it,  brother,  you  who  are  so  old, 
To  lie  and  squint  with  curtained  eye 
At  these  ephemera,  born  in  the  cold, 
These  human  things,  so  soon  to  die? 

You  were  scarce  grown,  a  paltry  eighty  years, 
Too  young  to  think  of  breeding  yet, 
When  Christ  the  Nazarene  loosed  the  salt  tears 
Which  on  man's  cheeks  today  are  wet. 

Mohammed  rose  and  died— you  churned  the  mud 
And  watched  your  female  laying  eggs. 
Columbus  passed  you— with  an  oozy  thud 
You  scrambled  sunward  on  your  legs. 

So  now  you  doze  at  ease  for  all  to  view 

U  cannot  vouch  for  the  science  of  this.     It  is  "Alligator  Joe's"  esti- 
mate. 

56 


And  bat  a  sleepy  lid  at  me; 
You  eat  a  little  every  year  or  two 
And  count  time  in  eternity. 

So,  brother,  which  is  wiser  of  us  twain 
When  words  are  said,  and  meals  are  past? 
I  think,  and  pass — you  sleep,  yet  you  remain, 
And  where  shall  be  the  end  at  last? 


57 


To  Sara  Teasdale 

From  my  life's  outer  orbit,  where  the  night 
That  bounds  my  knowledge  still  is  pierced  through 
By  far-off  singing  planets  such  as  you, 
Whose  faint  sweet  voices  come  to  me  like  light 
In  disembodied  beauty,  keen  and  bright — 
From  this  far  orbit  to  my  nearer  view 
You  came  one  day,  grown  tangible  and  true 
And  warm  with  sympathy  and  fair  with  sight. 
Then  I  who  still  had  loved  your  distant  voice, 
Your  songs,  shot  through  with  beauty  and  with  tears 
And  woven  magic  of  the  wistful  years, 
I  felt  the  listless  heart  of  me  rejoice 
And  stir  again,  that  had  lain  stunned  so  long, 
Since  I  had  you,  yourself  a  living  song. 


To  Amy  Lowell 

who  visits  me  in  a  hospital. 

Like  a  fleet  with  bellying  sails, 

Like  the  great  bulk  of  a  sea-cliff  with  the  staccato  bark 

of  waves  about  it, 

Like  the  tart  tang  of  the  sea  breeze 
Are  you; 
Filling  the  little  room  where  I  lie  straitly  on  a  white 

island  between  pain  and  pain. 


59 


Winter  Rain 

Winter  now  has  come  again; 

All  the  gentle  summer  rain 

Has  grown  chill,  and  stings  like  pain, 

And  it  whispers  of  things  slain, 

Love  of  mine. 

I  had  thought  to  bury  love, 
All  the  ways  and  wiles  thereof 
Buried  deep  and  buried  rough — 
But  it  has  not  been  enough, 
Heart  of  mine. 

Though  I  buried  him  so  deep, 
Tramped  his  grave  and  piled  it  steep, 
Strewed  with  flowers  the  aching  heap, 
Yet  it  seems  he  cannot  sleep, 
Soul  of  mine. 

And  the  drops  of  winter  rain 
In  the  grave  where  he  is  lain 
Drip,  and  drip,  and  sting  like  pain; 
Till  my  love  grows  live  again, 
Life  of  mine ! 


Nuit  Blanche 

My  soul  is  filled  with  huge,  unfinished  things, 
The  vast  abortions  of  the  world,  tonight, 
With  monstrous  crags,  spewed  upward  to  the  light 
By  a  sick,  travailing  earth;  with  headlong  springs 
That  rush  untimely  to  their  burgeonings; 
With  rivers  that  flash  downward  from  the  height 
Yearning  to  seaward,  doomed  to  end  their  flight 
In  the  slow  choking  that  the  desert  brings. 

And  love  is  with  me  too,  inchoate,  dire, 
Aping  your  features,  like  you — yet  untrue, 
Aborted,  botched,  a  mockery  of  you. 
It  sears  my  yearning  body  with  desire; 
My  very  soul  grows  formless  in  its  heat, 
And  in  the  whole  world  nothing  is  complete. 


61 


A  Song  of  Sailing 

Peaceful  and  patient  under  the  moon, 
Hugging  the  hills,  it  has  cuddled  down, 
Close  by  the  sea  where  the  strange  winds  croon, 
Your  little  town. 

You  are  at  peace  there  under  the  hills, 
You  who  have  gathered  the  stars  for  me; 
Strong  are  your  roots,  and  the  green  sap  fills 
Yearly  the  tree. 

Oh,  but  for  me  who  am  outward  bound 
Into  the  night  and  the  sea's  long  quest, 
Seeking  the  goal  that  is  never  found — 
Where  is  there  rest? 


62 


After  Love 

Oh,  I  am  restless,  restless! 

At  its  root 

My  life  is  withering  that  was  so  sound. 

Once  I  knew  singing.      I  have  felt  my  throat 
Ache  with  the  sharp,  unutterable  cry, 
And  poured  my  melted  being  in  a  note 
More  pure,  more  free,  more  rapturous  than  I. 

And  peace  I  knew.      My  open  hands  have  lain 
On  quiet  sands  that  harbored  all  the  sun. 
Yea,  my  soul  has  grown  fertile  as  the  rain 
And  deep  as  dusk  when  wandering  is  done. 

And  I  knew  beauty.     To  my  tuned  eyes 
The  east  has  shaken  with  the  dawnlight  thrills, 
And  the  wild  glory  of  the  naked  skies 
Trembled  to  dusk  along  the  western  hills. 

These  I  have  known  and  brought  them  all  to  love. 

But  love  is  gone,  and  now 

They  have  dropped  from  me  like  the  fickle  leaves, 

While  at  its  root 

My  life  is  withering  that  was  so  sound, 

And  I  am  restless,  restless! 


The  Steam  Shovel 

Beneath  my  window  in  a  city  street 

A  monster  lairs,  a  creature  huge  and  grim 

And  only  half  believed;  the  strength  of  him — 

Steel  strung  and  fit  to  meet 

The  strength  of  earth — 

Is  mighty  as  men's  dreams  that  conquer  force. 

Steam  belches  from  him.     He  is  the  new  birth 

Of  old  Behemoth,  late  sprung  from  the  source 

Whence  Grendel  sprang,  and  all  the  monster  clan 

Dead  for  an  age,  now  born  again  of  man. 

The  iron  head 

Set  on  a  monstrous,  jointed  neck, 

Glides  here  and  there,  lifts,  settles  on  the  red 

Moist  floor,  with  nose  dropped  in  the  dirt,  at  beck 

Of  some  incredible  control. 

He  snorts,  and  pauses  couchant  for  a  space, 

Then  slowly  lifts;  and  tears  the  gaping  hole 

Yet  deeper  in  earth's  flank.     A  sudden  race 

Of  loosened  earth  and  pebbles  trickles  there 

Like  blood-drops  in  a  wound. 

But  he,  the  monster,  swings  his  load  around 

Weightless  it  seems  as  air.     His  mammoth  jaw 

Drops  widely  open  with  a  rasping  sound 

And  all  the  red  earth  vomits  from  his  maw. 

Oh,  patient  monster,  born  at  man's  decree, 
A  lap-dog  dragon,  eating  from  his  hand 
And  c^omed  to  fetch  and  carry  at  command, 
64 


Have  you  no  longing  ever  to  be  free? 

In  warm  electric  days  to  run  a-muck, 

Ranging  like  some  mad  dinosaur, 

Your  fiery  heart  at  war 

With  this  strange  world,  the  city's  restless  ruck, 

Where  all  drab  things  that  toil,  save  you  alone, 

Have  life; 

And  you  the  semblance  only — and  the  strife? 

Do  you  not  yearn  to  rip  the  roots  of  stone 

Of  these  great  piles  men  build 

And  hurl  them  down  with  shriek  of  shattered  steel, 

Scorning  your  own  sure  doom,  so  you  may  feel, 

You  too,  the  lust  with  which  your  sires  killed? 

Or  is  your  soul  in  very  deed  so  tame, 

The  blood  of  Grendel  watered  to  a  gruel, 

That  you  are  well  content 

With  heart  of  flame 

Thus  placidly  to  chew  your  cud  of  fuel 

And  toil  in  peace  for  man's  aggrandizement? 

Poor  helpless  creature  of  a  half  grown  god, 

Blind  of  yourself  and  impotent! 

At  night 

When  your  forerunners,  sprung  from  quicker  sod, 

Ranged  through  primeval  woods,  hot  on  the  scent, 

Or  waked  the  stars  with  amorous  delight, 

You  stand,  a  soiled  unwieldy  mass  of  steel, 

Black  in  the  arc-light,  modern  as  your  name, 

Dead  and  unsouled  and  trite; 

Till  I  must  feel 

A  quick  creator's  pity  for  your  shame — 

65 


That  man  who  made  you  and  who  gave  so  much 
Yet  cannot  give  the  last  transforming  touch, 
That  with  the  work  he  cannot  give  the  wage, 
For  day,  no  joy  of  night, 
For  toil,  no  ecstasy  of  primal  rage. 


66 


Mud 

This  road  is  a  river  of  mud. 

It  sucks  and  gurgles  and  splashes,  almost  liquid  on  top, 
solidly  tenacious  underneath.  With  each  step  my 
boot  sinks  in,  slips  as  I  throw  my  weight  forward, 
and  comes  out  heavily  with  a  sucking  sound. 

The  soldiers  driving  the  cars  that  pass  me  have  mud 
in  their  hair,  and  their  faces  are  white  with  dry 
ing  mud. 

Yet  this  is  nothing.     There  is  bottom  here. 

I  am  thinking  of  two  Canadians  who  found  a  British 

soldier  mired  in  Flanders. 
He  was  in  a  hole  in  the  road,  sunk  in  to  his  arm-pits, 

stuck  fast. 
With  their  entrenching  tools  the  two  set  out  to  dig 

him  free.     They  dug  fast,  against  time.     But  not 

fast  enough. 
Down  the  road  a  heavy  gun  strained  forward  to  the 

front.     If  it  stopped  it  would  be  mired  beyond 

hope. 

England  needed  the  gun. 
It  didn't  stop. 

Near  Chiry,  1917. 


67 


Song  for  a  Blind  Man  Who 
Could  Not  Go  to  War 

You  who  have  no  eyes  to  see 

You  were  spared  what  shaketh  me. 

Houses  ribbed  against  the  sky 
Where  the  storm  of  steel  went  by; 

Barbed  wire  rusting  in  the  rain, 
Still  unwashed  of  human  pain; 

Children's  eyes  grown  black  with  fear; 
Grief  too  dead  for  sound  or  tear; 

Earth  with  clotted  death  for  yield; 
Crows  above  a  battlefield; 

Brains  like  paint  spilled  on  a  wall, 
And  flesh  that  has  no  form  at  all; 

And  after  nights  when  souls  have  gone 
The  lovely,  heedless,  heartless  dawn. 


You  who  have  no  eyes  to  see 

You  were  spared  what  shaketh  me. 


Paris,  191* 


68 


Deserted  Battlefield 

Here,  on  the  gentle  slope  of  hill,  in  this  great  space, 
beneath  this  windy  sky,  men  have  lain  down  to 
sleep  in  No  Man's  Land,  and  fallen  bit  by  bit 
away,  and  sunk,  in  sun  and  rain,  close,  closer  to 
the  earth;  and  come  at  last  to  be  one  with  the 
earth,  for  ever; 

And  so  have  come  to  peace,  where  all  roads  end,  nor 
any  cry  can  come. 

Ah,  yes!     But  there  is  pain!      But  there  is  pain. 

My  shuddering  spirit  breaks  itself  on  pain. 

There  are  these  pointed  stakes,  this  twisted  wire,  these 

barbed  and  saw-toothed  traps  for  flesh! 
Here  men  have  hung,  their  living  bodies  shattered, — 

hung,  and  watched  the  sun,  and  cringed  with  little 

cries,  and  called  on  God, 
And  thirst  has  twisted  in  them  like  a  blade. 

We  do  not  come  so  easily  to  death.  He  is  a  lover 
we  must  search  for  long,  and  woo  with  agony, 
and  clasp  with  pain, 

A  lover  hard  to  please — who  yet  at  last  clips  down 
upon  us,  merciful,  and  stops  our  mouth  with  peace, 
and  puts  to  rest  the  quick,  caged  throbbing  of  our 
brain. 

Death  we  can  love  at  last. 

But,  O  great  God,  what  shall  we  do  with  pain? 

NearVille,  1917. 

69 


Translations 
and  Renderings  into  English  Verse 


Since  I  Have  Set  My  Lips 

From  the  French  of  Victor  Hugo 

Since  I  have  set  my  lips  to  your  exhaustless  bowl, 
Since  in  your  cooling  hands  my  pallid  forehead  lay, 
Since  I  have  breathed  at  times  the  sweet  breath  of 

your  soul, 
Like  perfume  in  the  shadows,  too  delicate  for  day — 

Since  I  have  heard  you  say,  yearning  toward  me  the 

while, 

Words  where  the  heart  lies  hid,  mysterious  and  wise, 
Since  I  have  seen  you  weep,  since  I  have  seen  you  smile, 
Your  lips  on  my  lips  and  your  eyes  on  my  eyes — 

Since  I  have  felt,  agleam  on  my  enchanted  head, 
A  ray  from  your  far  star,  veiled  always  to  my  gaze, 
Since  on  my  life's  dark  wave  a  rose-leaf  has  been  shed, 
A  petal  dropped  to  me  from  roses  of  your  days — 

Now  can  I  truly  say  to  the  swift-running  years: 
Pass  on!     Pass  on  in  vain;  my  love  is  not  afraid. 
You  sluggards,   get  you   gone,   in   faded  flowers  and 

tears ! 
In  my  safe  heart  I  hide  a  flower  you  cannot  fade. 

Against  my  spirit's  urn  your  mighty  pinion  dashes, 
Yet  nothing  shall  you  spill  of  joy  that  I  possess; 
My  soul  has  more  of  fire  than  you  can  have  of  ashes, 
My  heart  has  more  of  love  than  you  forgetfulness ! 

73 


Autumn  Song 

From  the  French  of  Paul  Verlaine 

The  long-drawn  sobs 
That  autumn  throbs 
On  strings  a-weary, 
Wound  my  heart 
With  languid  smart, 
Endless,  dreary  .  .  . 

All  pallid  then, 
Half  stifled,  when 
Strikes  the  hour, 
I  call  to  mind 
Sweet  years  behind, 
And  tears  shower. 

Ill  winds  that  shift 
Set  me  a-drift, 
Scudding,  flying, 
Now  there,  now  here, 
Like  to  the  sere 
Leaf  dying. 


74 


The  Sail 

From  the  Russian  of  Mihail  Yuryevich  Lermontov 

A  far  sail  brightens,  solitary, 
The  thin,  blue  distance  of  the  sea. 
What  question  does  its  taut  heart  carry? 
What  does  it  seek?     What  does  it  flee? 

The  storm  shrieks  wild,  the  blown  sea  lurches, 
The  bending  mast  creaks  in  the  wind. 
Alas!      It  finds,  though  still  it  searches, 
No  happiness  before,  behind.  .  .  . 

Below  it,  streams  of  the  sea's  blue  wonder, 
Above  it,  sun,  and  the  clouds'  white  fleece. 
But  it,  impetuous,  seeks  the  thunder, 
As  though  in  the  thunder  there  were  peace. 


75 


Sonnet 

From  the  old  Spanish  of  Fray  Luis  da  Leon  (1529- 
1590 

Now  with  the  dawn  she  who  is  all  my  light 
From  sleep  arises;  now  her  lustrous  hair 
In  coiled  knot  she  binds;  and  now  her  fair 
Young  breast  and  throat  with  gold  she  has  bedight. 
Now  towards  the  heaven,  with  purity  made  bright 
Her  hands  and  eyes  she  raises,  and  a  prayer 
Of  pity  for  my  anguish  trembles  there. 
And  now  she  sings  as  grieving  angel  might. 

Thus  say  I,  and  upheld  by  this  dear  dream 

Before  my  eyes  I  seem  to  see  her  so. 

And  loving,  very  humble,  I  adore. 

But  later,  on  my  self-tricked  soul  the  gleam 

Of  truth  descends.     My  destiny  I  know 

And  loose  the  flood-gates  that  my  tears  may  pour. 


76 


Contemporary  Japanese  Poems 

(Rendered  into  English  verse  from 
the  literal  translations  of 
Professor  O.   Yoshida   in  Tokio) 


On  the  Grass 

After  Rofu  Miki  ("Rural  Vision,"  1915) 

I  laid  myself  down  on  the  grasses; 

Dark  grew  the  mountains  and  the  passes. 

An  echo  broke  the  autumn  weather. 
Dead   trees   and  my   flesh   shook   together. 

The  leaves  were  scattered.     They  seemed  trying 
To  climb  the  sky  as  they  were  dying. 


79 


The  Heart  of  a  Woman  of  Thirty 

After  Mrs.  Akiko  Yosano  ("Dance  Garments,"  1916) 

The  heart  of  a  woman  of  thirty 

Is  a  measure  of  fire, 

Having  neither  shade,  nor  smoke, 

Nor  sound. 

It  is  a  round  sacred  sun 

In  the  sky  at  evening; 

Silently, 

Penetratingly, 

It  burns — burns. 


80 


Songs 

After  Isamo  Yoshii 

(From  Tosei  Hashida's  "Anthology  of  Modern  Fa 
mous  Poems,"  1916) 

I 

Kichiya,  who  had  been  long  ill,  came  out  to  the  edge 
of  the  River  Kamogawa  and  bent  to  look  at  the 
rushes. 

II 

Because  one  said  to  me: 

"Beautiful,  beautiful  is  the  night!     We   shall  never 

sleep  tonight," 
Hardly  can  I  forget  one  night  at  Uji. 


81 


The  Orphan 

After  Hakushu  Kitahara 

On  a  hill,  in  the  glow  of  the  evening, 
She  is  weeping — and  singing  Rappabushi.1 

In  the  midst  of  the  glow  of  the  evening 

The  peddler  is  dangling  his  puppet, 

Clacking  his  tongue  and  his  thin  bronze  fingers. 

By  wire  and  by  note  the  doll  climbs  upward 

And  its  feet  of  paper  quiver. 

On  a  hill,  in  the  glow  of  the  evening, 
Hopelessly  she  is  singing  Rappabushi. 
Weeps  the  flute,  or  is  the  puppet  weeping? 
Infinitely  sorrowful  drips  the  tune. 
By  wire  and  by  note  the  doll  climbs  upward 
And  its  feet  of  paper  quiver. 

O  pitiful  slave  of  Karma ! 

You  shall  be  cold  tonight,  little  orphan, 

And  passing  bitter  for  your  warm  lost  lover, 

And  that  the  rasping  peddler  beats  you. 

By  wire  and  by  note  the  doll  climbs  upward 

And  its  feet  of  paper  quiver. 

On  a  hill,  in  the  glow  of  the  evening 
Rappabushi  dies  in  the  twilight. 

i Rappabushi   (accented  on  the  second  syllable),  meaning  "trumpe 
note,"  is  the  title  of  a  popular  song. 
82 


The  Cup  of  Darkness 

After  Home!  Iwano  (Volume  of  the  same  name,  1908) 

Like  a  lost  jewel  is  my  dream. 

Though  when  I  awake  I  search  hungrily  for  it,  alas, 
I  find  it  not. 

The  glow  and  the  gleam  are  gone. 
Only  a  hand  remains,  a  hand  which  I  stretch  forth  in 
the  darkness. 

My  joints  relax;  my  strength  runs  out  of  them. 
Even  my  love  and  my  hope  are  half  a  dream. 

When  I  open  my  eyes  the  sliding  groove  of  darkness  is 

over  me, 
And  strange  torn  visions  wander  there. 

Devil!     Rasetsu!     Yasha's  head! 

What  spirits  cast  these  fevered  shapes  over  me? 

I  am  locked  in  the  prison  of  death; 
My  flesh  and  my  soul  are  burning. 

Though  the  terror  and  menace  of  unseen  fire  and  water 
Are  darkly  over  me, 

Yet  my  life  laughs  like  the  foam  of  sake 

And  the  sweet  scent  of  mirth  leads  me  into  slumber. 


The  cup  of  darkness  holds  the  darkness. 
I  sink  in  the  fathomless  night, 

Where  from  dream  to  sliding  dream 
I  shall  glide  forever  .  .  . 


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